


Not of Small Virtues

by Corycides, Penndragon



Series: 100 Fics in 100 Days [47]
Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Gen, Knives, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-22
Updated: 2013-03-22
Packaged: 2017-12-06 04:14:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/731341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corycides/pseuds/Corycides, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Penndragon/pseuds/Penndragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Who can the torturer confide in?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not of Small Virtues

The soft, regular sound of her breathing was soothing background as Strausser laid his kit out with fastidious precision. It was always pleasant visiting with Rachel. Other than a brief testing period early on – which he could not fault her for, it was important to discover each other's boundaries – she never blustered or begged or bargained. Unlike some, who snivelled and shat themselves over a simple nick.

Preparation almost complete, Strausser hesitated. His fingers hovered the last blade in his set, stroking the cool metal handle. The kit wasn't complete without the scalpel, but it galled his professional pride to lay it out as if he didn't know any better. Particularly in front of Rachel.

'Do you know what I miss about the old world, Mrs Matheson?' he asked. Not Rachel – that would be presumptuous. 

There was a pause. He waited with interest to see what she'd answer. The food in the mental hospital? Wood chippers? Real dolls?

'Nothing?' Rachel suggested.

A smile pursed Strausser's lips. Of course, he should have known better than to expect Rachel to resort to such moronic retorts. She was classy...no, he corrected himself sharply, that wasn't the right word. She was dignified.

'Craftsmanship,' he said.

On a whim he picked up the knife and turned, holding it up so she could see. 'A Swan-Morton No. 22 scalpel with a palmar blade and polymer coating. Beautiful piece of work.'

He'd used it on her, flaying thick worms of pink fat and pale skin from around her lean hip and rubbing salt into the wound to make sure the encircled M scarred properly. It was gratifying to see Rachel remembered it too, her eyes flinching away nervously. The shared memory – blood slick on his fingers, salty in his mouth and matted in the thatch of pale curls between Rachel's thighs – made arousal clutch at his balls like a heavy, hot hand. 

It was hardly appropriate. Despite his and Rachel's – connection – she wasn't one of his playmates. It was demeaning to think of her like that.

He jabbed the knife into the web of skin between thumb and forefinger, cutting into the stiff pad of scar tissue. The dribble of blood he sucked out of the wound redirected his mind, bringing it back to task. 

'It is a work of art really,' he said, walking over to her. He turned the scalpel so he could see it glitter in her eyes. 'The ideal instrument for altering the human body. Like a bespoke suit, only infinitely more useful.'

'And ruined!' he spat, temper flaring, as he stabbed the blade into her thigh, piercing cotton and gouging down into the meaty flesh. Rachel jerked and her whole face closed up with pain, her lips squeezing back the scream of pain he could feel in her throat. Just this once though, he wasn't in the mood to enjoy her playing hard to get. He twisted the blade viciously, blood dripping onto the floor in fat, wet splatters and she finally screamed.

Satisfied, he pulled the scalpel out of her thigh. She slumped in the chair, panting raggedly and her skin dewed with sweat. It only took a few seconds for her to regain control of herself, breath steadying in that familiar rhythm.

It helped him cage his mood back up, so his voice was steady again as he said. 'Did you notice the difference?'

There were tears bright on her lashes. He knew she wouldn't give him that – not yet – but he still watched eagerly as she blinked them back. 

'It's broken.'

Strausser smiled and wagged the blade at her, flicking blood onto her face. 'You see? I knew you always notice the little details.' He pressed his finger against his lips and leant in. 'Just between us?'

The severe line of her mouth softened in a wry smile. 'Who else do I see?'

'Exactly,' he said, giving her a knowing look. 'General Monroe _used_ it to stab a prisoner.'

Rachel didn't say anything.

'You don't stab with a scalpel,' he explained. 'You incise, you remove, you-'

She glanced down at her bloody thigh and he caught up, chuckling. 'Yes, fair point. Very funny, Mrs Matheson. My point is still valid. This? Is no longer a scalpel. It's just another sharp object, and they are a dime a dozen.'

He wiped it clean on his sleeve and regarded it mournfully. 'He broke the tip on his ribs. I wouldn't say this to anyone else, Mrs Matheson, but it was sloppy. And using another man's knives? That's-' Well, it was a dick move, was what it was. He couldn't say that to Rachel though, it would be uncouth. She'd think less of him. 'It's just not done.'

'General Monroe makes his own rules,' Rachel said.

'The General makes laws,' Strausser said. 'Not using another man's tools is just a matter of common decency.'

He felt better for talking about it, though. Rachel had a way of making things seem...clearer. The scalpel was ruined – he hadn't even enjoyed it penetrating Rachel's skin – and keeping in the kit was sentimentality. His father would have had no time for that, no patience with coddling anything that couldn't earn its way. Best to just be rid of it. The empty slot in his kit would bother him less than the crumpled edge.

'I do enjoy these little chats, Mrs Matheson,' he told her warmly, turning away to select another knife. Thinking about the scarification had given him a craving for it, but his other scalpel was a short, curve-edged blade. It was good for small incisions, but not stencilling or fine work. Maybe the flensing knife. He picked it up and turned, smiling at her. 'They're quite the highlight of my week.'

  
  


  
  


  
  


  
  



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